Once Upon a September
by Zeff N Company
Summary: For pyjamaTerra: "Tifa and Sephiroth are talking like civilized people in the same room, you accepted my offer for furry role play, and there are dozens of Yuffies haunting me," King Cloudius of Strife moaned. "That's it: I'm dreaming."


"Truly, if there be darkness in this world, it lies within the heart of mankind."

"But soft, behold: For when the light in any world ceases her vigilance and struggle, then the dark ones prevail...!"

And so did the pair that were Tifaret, Lyric of Light, and Sephirot, Dirge of Darkness, continue their debate in the royal court of King Strife. To the King's right hand stood his trusty adviser, and that adviser spoke now:

"Cloudius, your eminence, your ears would serve you better if you paid attention."

"It be hard to concentrate with such awful accompaniment."

Ignoring the insult, the tiny butterfly ninja broke into another off-key song. All around the court, more replicas of the small female figure poured tea, played harps, and handed out pastries.

"Wise Leonidas, I ask of you this," the King uttered, staring lazily at the singing ninja. "Which crow in my court hired these Yuffies to plague me so?"

"That crow be you, my King," the adviser answered readily, "for your words, dare I quote, were, 'bring me these harpies, and have them play in session, that all talk may become as palatable as a mother's cake'."

"Alas, this cake is a lie."

The song was cut abruptly short, and the butterfly ninja shrilled in alarm as a Brioche flew in her general direction. With an indignant huff, she fluttered off to garner a better show of respect from the volatile King with other activities.

Still did the Lyric of Light and the Dirge of Darkness argue, their banters like arrows that flew back and forth. And all the while ignoring blatantly the subject of this fruitless argument - the young royal that still slouched in his throne between them.

The Lyric's slim figure was graced chastely in maroon silk and golden armor, and her lone wing of white portrayed her as one untainted. Indeed, she carried the beauty of an angel. She also carried a furious wrath that caused many fearless men of legend to meekly reconsider their title. Surely, she was a divine being, for no earthly woman would ever strike the terror of consequence in the heart of the King as she had. All it took was a deliberate cough, and the young monarch had humbly dropped his luxuries to hear her speak.

The Dirge bore little show of the wasteful bulk that was the trademark of gladiators, but his dark essence reminded all of his deathly superiority in strength and skill. His own form was cloaked in obsidian and blood red, fastened with darkened silver pieces, and the wing that spread from him was the black corruption that contrasted the Lyric's white purity. His regal dressing betrayed nothing of the endless line of lives that had fallen before his mighty weapon Masamune, but he was one who demanded subservience.

And these two titans now faced each other in verbal warfare; it was no wonder the only two mortals here were the careless King and his trusted, for weaker men had either fled or were carried out in miserably dire straits involving soiled underwear.

"Be these immortals not done with this drivel?" The King complained once more; in his hand was another of the sweetened loaves, which he now bit into as he regarded the spectacle before him. Beside him, the adviser selected a soft pear.

"If one may say so, Royal, the result ultimately falls to your decision," the brunet spoke in answer. "Most tragedy is dealt by he who never makes up his mind about light and dark."

"So do be brutally truthful, my crafty Leonidas," the blond monarch ordered in his suave retort, "what thinks you of your King regarding this decision?"

A snap of fingers, and three butterfly ninja broke away from the swarm to bring in a rolled parchment. At an instructional gesture, they proceeded to unroll it and reveal its contents. With a flair, the adviser pulled out a pointer to indicate different parts of the diagrams that had been drawn as crude doodles.

"This is Tifa, Lyric of Light," he started methodically with a neutral expression, "and this is the proverbial chute you intend to stuff her down to make her go away."

The King snorted in amusement; who knew how many rehearsals his wily adviser had conducted to go through everything immaculately as he did. With a wave, he beckoned the other to, please, continue.

"This is the Cave of Evil and All Emotions Very Bad-" one tap, "-this is Seph, Dirge of Darkness, saying, 'please go in there!'-" another tap, "-and lastly, this is you going, 'how fun!', as you prance right in like a princess toward a bunny."

The King snorted again, tickled despite the obvious mockery at his person. "Tactless, much?"

"Your Majesty asked of me to be brutally truthful," came the easy reply.

Another snap of fingers, and the butterfly ninjas towed the diagram away, all the while rolling it back up for storage. The remaining swarm broke into a new ballad that went as ignored as its predecessors.

"My friends are poor, but honest," the King mused wistfully. "... So I be a princess now?"

The adviser smirked as he gave his indirect answer: "Lady Aerith speaks fondly of how your cross-dress could sway a bishop off his pulpit."

"Would that make you the bunny?"

"If your Majesty would so wish it, I shall go forth and retrieve some ears."

Then the King blinked as realization fell on him like a ton of bricks. He groaned and slouched once more, two fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose as he nursed an impending migraine.

"Are you well, my King?"

"Tifa and Sephiroth are talking like civilized people in the same room, you accepted my offer for furry role play, and there are dozens of Yuffies haunting me," King Cloudius of Strife moaned, suddenly no longer in character. "That's it: I'm dreaming."

"If you say so."

"Prithee, Leonidas, tell me one thing," the King spoke again, regaining his tongue in a moment, "be this man a fool for ingesting the much averted Gainsborough cocktail...known otherwise as soda drenched in milk?"

"All the King's men are born to be fools, your eminence," the adviser replied, "but you were born a stooge, and your level is above all others."

"Even in my dreams, you play me like a flute."

"It is as you like it."

"Well said, my imaginary spoony bard. Well said."

* * *

_If this writer has offended,_

Think but this, and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream.

Gentles, do not reprehend,

If you pardon, we will mend;

So give me your hands, if we be friends,  
_  
And new proses shall restore amends._


End file.
